


Aftershocks

by theskywasblue



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil
Genre: Alternate Character Interpretation, F/M, Introspection, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-09
Updated: 2010-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-10 11:30:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris knows what death looks like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftershocks

It's never hit him like this before.

He's seen some scary shit, there's no doubt. People like to think that because he was pilot, he's never seen the kind of damage that can happen on the ground, but he has. He knows what death looks like, what it smells like.

And now he knows what it feels like when it curls its rotten fingers into the collar of his shirt and breathes against his neck.

He knows he's not thinking straight. He's running on anger, fear, adrenaline, and sugar from the vending machines. He wonders if he's going to be able to keep himself from putting his fist through Chief Irons' face. That's the kind of shit that got him tossed out of the Air Force on his ass two years ago, because he has no tolerance at all for bureaucratic dickheads. Barry had pulled him into S.T.A.R.S. promising it wouldn't be like that; S.T.A.R.S. didn't care what his jacket said as long as he could do the job.

Hell, it seemed S.T.A.R.S. didn't care if you were a sociopath as long as you could do the job.

Everyone thinks they are crazy - him, Jill, Barry, little Becca, even Chickenheart Vickers, who spent 9 hours in a chopper and came in smelling like he had piss dribbled down the inside of his leg - everyone thinks they are fucked in the head. They don't have the evidence to prove otherwise, it's all done up in smoke.

No one will ever believe they might actually have saved the world.

He looks into the mirror over the sink that’s holding him up, and for a moment he sees a corpse, haggard, pale - it opens a mouth full of broken teeth streaked with gore and leans towards his neck. He stumbles back, hits one of the stall doors, loses his balance and ends up on the grimy floor, his ears ringing, the back of his skull aching from where it hit the toilet seat, breathing like he's been running for his life.

"Chris?"

He tries to answer, but his lips stick together, and then he's staring at Jill's knees.

"I'm alright," he manages, though he really doesn't even believe himself when he says it.

"No," Jill answers, crouching down and reaching to touch the back of his head gingerly with blessedly cool fingers, "you aren't. None of us are; but you have to _hang in there_.”

She says it like it’s going to be an easy thing, but Chris knows it’s not. Still, he knows that Jill is right. There are two ways to do this – they can give up, give in, let Umbrella sweep everything under the rug, and it’ll be like Richard and Forest, Enrico, Kevin and Joseph died for nothing. No, fuck that – Chris isn’t about to let that happen.

Umbrella’s going to pay.

Jill squeezes the back of his neck, “That’s the spirit Redfield. Now c’mon – the Chief wants to talk to you.”

-End-


End file.
